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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833821">The War Figure</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars'>allmystars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Alternate Universe - World War II, American Dean Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel Has an Accent (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, Charlie is Castiel's Cat, DCRB2021, Dreamsharing, Fluff and Angst, French Castiel (Supernatural), Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Magic and Occult, Military Veteran Castiel (Supernatural), Music Box Figurines, Not at sad as it sounds I promise, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Dancing, Soldier Dean Winchester, Swearing, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, Toy Shop Owner Castiel, Trauma, deancasreversebang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:28:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergeant Dean Winchester has a job to do. Clear the streets of a little French town called Bayeux. It’s a show of presence, really. The enemy is gone. Perhaps it’s for the best since  he’s never been one much for killing.<br/>It’s a job, though, and he gets by. There’s really not much more to it than that.<br/>~<br/>Two years after returning from war, Lieutenant Castiel Novak is tired. Hungry, too, and he has this perpetual headache that has everything to do with the bottle of brandy on his shelf, and not a thing to do with anything else.<br/>His life is falling apart, but he has his kitty, Charlie, and he has himself. He gets by. What more could he need?<br/>But life is more than ‘getting by’ and maybe it takes a few catastrophes for them to see it. Maybe it takes a music box figurine on Castiel’s doorstep, or a desperate brother looking for answers.<br/>Maybe it takes a little bit of magic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two soldiers, two strangers, separated by time, distance, and life between living, brought together by circumstances neither of them can control, and changing them both beyond measure.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, lovelies,</p>
<p>This year's DCRB is here! Okay, where to start?<br/>Writing a story to go with sissyray's gorgeous artwork was a dream, and I absolutely LOVE this story, so thank you to my wonderful partner for bringing that inspiration to life. You can find the art post <a href="https://twitter.com/thestarkeeper21/status/1374083730843824132?s=21">here</a>!</p>
<p>Thanks to theimportanceofbeingvictoria for beta reading this. You were so so helpful in cleaning up the incoherent mess of a first draft this was! Thank you, thank you, thank you.</p>
<p>This is the first of a few stories coming your way in the next few months, so look out for those, and if you're currently following along with POMH, there should be more to come after these stories are posted.</p>
<p>I hope you like it!</p>
<p>Love,</p>
<p>allmystars &lt;3</p>
<p>P.S. Find a hidden little gem in chapter two!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>“There’s nothing in this town,” Benny says, swinging his M1 up from its sling, the tattered material fraying where it meets the seam of his jacket. </p><p>Be that as it may, Dean’s squad is tasked with clearing the liberated French town of Bayeux, so that’s what they’ll damn well do. </p><p>Slate grey clouds hang low in the sky, threatening rainfall, but hopefully, it holds off for another few hours. He’s so damn tired of the rain, but no one gives a fuck about a water-logged soldier, as long as he can still lift his gun and pull the trigger.</p><p>“Orders,” Dean grunts, keeping his steps light and soundless as they move through the war-torn streets of the once-beautiful town. </p><p>Now, storefronts are boarded up, rubble litters the streets, and nothing but Dean and his men move. Buildings are half torn apart, the other side crumbling under the weight of old fears and new realities. Nothing lives here, because nothing can.</p><p>“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Benny starts, far too damn loud for the situation they’re in. Kevin shushes him before Dean gets the chance, but he just continues in a whisper. “I just want some excitement; something other than clearing already-cleared towns with nothing but a few locals left to keep it from ghost-town status.”</p><p>“Excitement gets you killed, jackass.” Dean rolls his eyes, then makes a zip-your-lip gesture to get him to shut up. He waves to the end of the street where the road forks off into three separate paths. Dean takes the first path with Benny and Kevin, while Lee, Victor, and Gordon take the middle, and Jesse, Caesar, and Ash take the last, guns raised and eyes peeled.</p><p>Dean and his crew clear building after building, silent as the sea breeze and just as swift. Not that there’s anything to look for, really. Sure, there are a few families, but most have cleared out for the war. They’ll be back though, in time.</p><p>“What’s that?” Benny whispers, glancing over at Dean as they turn the corner, almost to the edge of town. They have troops at this end, stationed in the abandoned homes, but so far, Dean’s men haven’t come across any. He’s not worried, though. Not yet.</p><p>Just up ahead, there's a tiny shop at the end of the street, its lights on inside—the first of its kind they’ve come across. Dean waves his men forward, curious about the little store, and they follow close behind.</p><p>It looks like… like a toy shop. Little trinkets sit in the window display, some dancing, swaying, spinning, and some still, resting in a neat little row. There’s an old, dust-covered dollhouse, cracked open to show the interior. </p><p>Dean smiles, coming up to the window and peering inside. He lets his gun rest by his waist, feeling an inexplicable calm in the window of the tiny shop with an apartment overhead. ‘Magasin de Jouets Figures Peintes.’ <em> Painted Figures Toy Store</em>, the sign above the window reads in faded, chipping paint, and Dean’s drawn to it. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Lee hisses, slapping Dean’s shoulder as he reaches for the door handle. Dean shoots him a glare, swatting him away.</p><p>“I’ll be quick.”</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>“Sergeant Winchester,” Dean snaps, reminding Lee of his status. He’s not to be questioned by someone like Lee, not in this. </p><p>Lee draws his hand back, pissed off but trying not to show it. Dean doesn’t care—he’s going inside. </p><p>“Wait here,” he tells them before leaving the dreary afternoon behind as he pushes through the door and steps into another world. Weathered hardwood floors creak under Dean’s boots as an antique bell jingles overhead, announcing his entrance. There’s a glass display case on both sides of the long room, and an old, beaten down cash register sitting in front of a door Dean assumes leads to an office or a storeroom.</p><p>There’s no one around, but that’s to be expected, so he takes himself on a tour of the shop. The glass cases hold the sorts of toys Dean always wanted as a child, but that his family could never afford. Little cars of bright colors, a cymbal monkey, and… would you look at that! A Popeye Dippy Dumper! Sammy would’ve loved that as a kid.</p><p>“Can I help you find anything?”</p><p>Dean jumps, startled by the deep, accented voice, speaking perfect English despite his obvious French heritage.</p><p>But Dean smiles at the old man, as run-down as his store, and steps up to the cash register with a wandering glance at the shelves at the Frenchman's back. At the pictures, faded and colorless, creeping up on what little space is free for the toys themselves.</p><p>“Good day, sir,” Dean says, bringing his gaze back to the crystal clear blues watching him with careful curiosity. The deep lines creasing the corners of his eyes speak of hard times still here, and his threadbare church shirt and faded trousers tell Dean the man is barely making ends meet, if at all. “I’ve come to make a purchase.”</p><p>“Of course.” The Frenchman smiles, setting aside the polishing cloth he’d had in his hands in favor of the key to the display cases. “What do you have in mind?”</p><p>“Well,” Dean starts, perusing the selection in front of him. He’s pleased to see how well-kept the toys are, despite what the storefront would suggest. “I’m not sure. What do you recommend?”</p><p>The Frenchman eyes him for a moment, something curious in his gaze before he smiles. “Ah, I have just the thing.” He stoops with his key, unlocking the glass case and reaching in. </p><p>For a moment, Dean thinks maybe he’s made a mistake—that the man is about to sell him the most expensive thing in the store—but it’s between a giant slinky and a set of toy soldiers that he finds what he’s looking for. </p><p>“That, there,” Dean says, pointing to the little crystal-encased dove feather pendant, strung up on a leather cord that the Frenchman already has his fingers around. It’s not a toy, of course, but gosh is it beautiful. </p><p>The Frenchman nods, smiling that knowing smile before removing the tiny pendant with a gentle touch. He sets the feather on his polishing cloth for Dean to see. It’s just as beautiful as it was under the glass, and a peculiar warmth sinks into Dean’s bones when he brushes it with a single, cracked and scarred finger. </p><p>“It is one of a kind, you know—a Soldier’s Solace.”</p><p>“I’ll take it.”</p><p>The Frenchman nods again, packaging the dainty pendant in a soft velvet pouch. Dean pays, handing over a whole two francs more than is asked for, and refusing the change with a wave of his hand. </p><p>Instead of trying to find a pocket in his piece-of-shit jacket, he takes the pendant from the pouch and hangs it around his neck with a pleased little smile, handing the velvet back to the Frenchman. </p><p>“Thank you, sir. Have a good day.”</p><p>But Dean lingers, once again looking at the shelving behind the display, his attention caught by one photo in particular—a young man, a little older than him, smiling in a crisp French military uniform. His dark hair not quite tamed under his pressing hand, and his gummy smile lighting up the black and white image.</p><p>“The man in the photo,” Dean questions, pointing to the one he’d been looking at. “Might I ask about him?”</p><p>The Frenchman ages a good ten years in an instant, a weight coming down on his shoulders like the one thing he wants in the whole world is the only thing he can’t have.</p><p>“That is my son, Castiel. A soldier, much like you.” His accent thickens with emotion when he speaks, and it strikes a chord in Dean, an ache growing in his chest at the thought of losing a child to war.</p><p>“Well,” Dean murmurs, not knowing what else to say, and steps back from the display counter with a tip of his chin. “I wish you the best, sir. Good day.”</p><p>Dean leaves the store behind, but the memory of the Frenchman’s haunted eyes remain</p><p>He lifts the pendant as he steps through the door, examining the dainty feather within. It’s gorgeous, what with the snowy white feather and clear crystal—</p><p>“And what do we have here?” Dean whispers to himself, twisting the little silver pendant attached to the top of the crystal.</p><p>He reads the words in garbled French. “Et moi, toi.” <em> And I, you</em>.</p><p>‘And I, you,’ what?</p><p>
  
</p><p>Dean doesn’t bother lifting his gun again as they move to the edge of town. </p><p>That’s his first mistake.</p><p>“Where the hell are two and three?” Dean snaps, referring to the other two squads. They were supposed to be here by now, and the fact that they were held up by Dean’s little detour means the others should be right here, right now. </p><p>“Probably checking out some lingerie or something,” Lee snarks, his own gun hanging at his back. “When are we getting new boots?”</p><p>Dean looks down at his own feet, not nearly as worn and torn as Lee’s, and eons better than Benny’s, that are practically worn right through at the sole. Serves him right for dragging his ass all the time.</p><p>“Don’t know. Probably not at all.” </p><p>“Well, that’s just bullshit, ain’t it?” Benny grouses, kicking his sole-less boots in the dirt. Much too loud if Dean says so himself, but he doesn’t say so. What’s the harm?</p><p>That’s his second mistake.</p><p>The undergrowth creeps into the road, almost like it’s growing in his periphery. Trees lean across the way as rubble from the bombings pushes further into the streets. This is the worst of the wear on this town, right here with dilapidated and collapsed houses, alike. The river flows fast and hard to Dean’s right, drowning out the rest of the world’s noise. Benny just talks louder.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Laffite—<em>fuck </em>!”</p><p>Benny drops first, then Lee, and finally Dean, with a ringing in his ears as the world goes dark. What’s happening? Why hadn’t he paid more attention? He should’ve done his <em> fucking </em> job!</p><p>But he didn’t; he went lax, and that’s the last mistake he’ll ever make.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The early morning sunlight shines bright and true through the dirty front window of Castiel’s toy shop. He really should get those cleaned, but who has the time? Besides, it’s not the windows he’s trying to sell, and all these trinkets and toys aren’t going to polish themselves.</p>
<p>Still, he whistles, the simple tune floating through the dim shop as he makes his way down from his tiny shoebox apartment. It feels like a good day, even with the ache creaking his knees and the stress over finances that’s been eating him alive since Maman passed two winters ago, and Papa soon after.</p>
<p>Still… he whistles, trying to keep their memory alive.</p>
<p>“Another day, another dime, Charlie,” he tells the orange tabby lounging beside the cash register. She flicks her tail, the rare color for a female not even close to his favorite thing about his feline companion.</p>
<p>She mews, rolling onto her back and lifting a paw in a false show of submission. Castiel smiles—he knows all her tricks—but reaches out to give her a scratch, anyway, getting a clawless swat for his troubles.</p>
<p>Behind him, the grandfather clock tolls, making him jump. Must get to it; the day waits for no man.</p>
<p>Castiel purses his lips, and whistles once more, unlocking the front door with the ancient key Papa refused to change. Castiel always thought it foolish, having such an old, brittle thing protecting all these old… brittle things. </p>
<p>Yes, he sees the irony now, but only now.</p>
<p>He swings the front door open to an empty street. Well, mostly empty.</p>
<p>“Bonjour, Hannah.” <em> Hello, Hannah</em>, Castiel says, offering a small wave as she skips past his storefront, a long skirt swishing around her ankles. </p>
<p>“Castiel!” She stops, bouncing on the balls of her feet with a finger-wiggling wave. She’s an odd girl, a bit of a loner with peculiar interests and a habit of murmuring to herself at times, but she’s sweet enough, and a dear friend from his childhood, so he’s never thought much of the fleeting looks of disdain she gets from the locals, and he supposes she doesn’t either. “A beautiful day, isn’t it?” </p>
<p>“It is, I suppose,” Castiel nods, and a blush colors her cheeks, a delighted sway to her hips before she continues on down the lane. “Have a good day, Hannah!” </p>
<p>She waves over her shoulder—just a wiggle of her fingers and nothing more.</p>
<p>She’s the only one around—not another soul in sight. Not that he’s surprised, though, since it’s only six in the morning, but he also knows the time of day doesn’t change much anymore, and money is tight for everyone.</p>
<p>With a heavy sigh, Castiel steps back inside like he does every morning, disappointed and saddened by the loss of everything he once held so dear. </p>
<p>Only, this morning he stops before the door snaps shut, excitement thrumming inside him.</p>
<p>There’s a package on the doorstep, just like there has been for the last two years. Not every day, of course, but sporadically over the months—whenever money is so tight, he has to choose between putting food on the table, or sleeping on the streets when he can’t afford his taxes—and they all have a note, hastily scrawled and taped to the side.</p>
<p>Castiel’s whistling doesn’t cease as he carries the box to the display, a pep in his step that hasn’t been there since that last payday.</p>
<p>“Maybe a few dimes today, Charlie,” Castiel chirps, tearing off the tape before remembering the note and opening it up to read.</p>
<p>This one says, “My name is Sergeant Dean Winchester, I am: 14/22.” Like he’s part of a set, but none ever stay on the shelves long enough to meet their companions, and for that, Castiel is almost sad. Almost.</p>
<p>With an old pen, Castiel stabs at the tape, tearing it down the middle before pulling both flaps up and open. There, in the shadowed interior, rests another of the music box figurines—what Castiel has taken to calling The War Figures because every one of them is a solder. An American soldier, which is far odder than Castiel wants to think about, but it’s what his customers like, and he’s not about to question the mysterious money-maker for the sake of a uniform.</p>
<p>And this one… Lord, will this one be a money-maker. </p>
<p>The details are exquisite, right down to the honey-speckled green eyes and smattering of freckles. His light brown hair is short and spiked, and as every American soldier is, he’s fit and handsome. Like all the others were, and maybe even more so. A tattered American flag held above his head, standing on a pedestal in front of a mirror in a pose, almost like a dance, only frozen in time.</p>
<p>Castiel turns the key in the back but his smile falls when, with a creak, a distorted musical note, and a jerking twitch, the figurine stands still.</p>
<p>Well, that’s new.</p>
<p>The others had worked just as they were meant to, dancing and spinning with that timeless sound, slow and melancholy, one he doesn’t know. He calls it <a href="https://youtu.be/RnU0x6nFYfw">The War Figure Lullaby</a>, though he knows that’s not the name.</p>
<p>Despite its broken pieces, this one might be the best yet, and he smiles down at The War Figure, dusting off some dirt marring his face, before settling him back in the box. It’ll need some work, that’s for certain, but Castiel’s no stranger to that. </p>
<p>Castiel purses his lips once more, picking up the box and rounding the counter for the office, The War Figure Lullaby filling the empty, echoing air.</p>
<p>He’ll have a look at his latest War Figure later, but for now, the rest of his day awaits, and Castiel will spend every moment of it waiting for his opportunity to take a closer look at Sergeant Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em> This is a place Castiel knows.  </em>
</p>
<p><em> Even dreaming, he </em> knows <em> this town. It’s his home—how could he not? </em></p>
<p>
  <em> The ruins of years not long past line the darkened lane-ways, a hazy rubble-made dust filling the air, filtering through the moonlight.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Castiel walks the streets, alone and empty as they are. It’s so quiet he can hear his own heart thundering behind his rib cage—his pulse pounding in his ears. God, where is everyone? </em>
</p>
<p><em> The tailor near the edge of town, the one Papa used to go to before the war, is half torn down now; the words, </em> Monsieur Shirley <em> the only part Castiel can make out of the antique sign. Pale moonlight reflects off the shattered glass littering the cracked sidewalk. A tiny sock, still smoldering, sits among the boulders. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> Castiel turns away. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> There’s something to be said about the memory in a dream. The scene laid out before him isn’t quite what Castiel remembers; not as sharp, not as sobering. There are no dead bodies here now. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The bomb-shredded streets of Bayeux crumble underfoot, the Rue Saint-Jean, on which he stands, a shadow of what it once was. Not even a firefly dares to stir.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The biting winter wind nips at his nose, sending a shiver down his spine. It’s not just the cold that makes him ache all over, but the tension inside him stiffening his movements. This feels too real—too much like it did in the days before he was shipped off to war. It feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop, even as he turns the corner and finds no one. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> More darkened storefronts that were once lit with life. An ache like he’s only felt twice before sinks into his bones, settling in like Ancient Greek melancholia. A ridiculous notion, but it’s there all the same.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Maybe it’s in here… </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Castiel peeks through the empty doorway of the music shop Maman used to take him to as a boy, frequented by respectable ladies in their wide-brimmed hats and Sunday’s best.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> There’s nothing now; nothing but smashed reel-to-reel players and shattered glass displays. It’s what he expects, but the sight of the magnetophone Castiel had been saving his paychecks for, crushed under a fallen beam, still breaks his heart. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Not here, then. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> It’s later now; near midnight and snow is starting to fall in lazy flakes. Castiel’s fingers sting from the icy chill in the air, and he tucks them into his armpits to warm them. His nose drips and ears ache, the tips surely glowing an angry red, but he carries on. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Only a while longer… just a little while. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> But he’s searched the whole town, and has yet to find anything that will lead him to— </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> What? What is he looking for?  </em>
</p>
<p><em> That, Castiel doesn’t know, but it’s crucial that he finds it before he wakes. He doesn’t know why, or how he knows it, but he </em> does<em>. </em></p>
<p><em> Castiel stops next to the steps that lead down to the mill. This is the last place to look—the </em> only <em> place he hasn’t checked. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> With but a moment’s hesitation, Castiel creeps down the stone steps, skipping the ones with crumbling pieces, and doing so as quietly as he can manage. The night is black now, snow clouds blotting out the moon, and for that, Castiel is grateful. He doesn’t want to be seen. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Down by the water now, snow melting as it settles, Castiel stops. A man crouches by the river, looking for… something, and Castiel steps closer, his heart skipping in his chest. What is he doing— </em>
</p>
<p><em> The man’s head snaps up, looking straight at Castiel, who jumps. Those eyes… it’s all he sees. Frozen in place by fear and something else—something… softer. Those eyes, lit by the moon through a crack in the clouds. Dark from so far away, but Castiel knows it, somehow. Those eyes are green and </em> terrified<em>. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> Silence hangs in the air, echoing like the space between gunshots—ringing and ringing and ringing until it’s all he hears.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Then, just before Castiel wakes, the man parts his dry, bloodstained lips, and in a cracked, rasping whisper, he says, “Help me.” </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel gasps, grasping his chest as he shoots up in bed. Sweat drips from his temples, sliding down his back in an icy trickle that makes him shiver. </p><p>He is no stranger to nightmares; muddied paths sunk with soldiers—some nameless and others not quite known—eyes open and lips, if not stained with mud, grey with death. But that’s not… this isn’t… </p><p>Well, he’s not quite sure what this is. Not a nightmare, not a dream—too real to be either. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel the icy burn of the midnight snow on his cheeks, and he shivers again. </p><p>Castiel pulls his thin blanket tighter around his shoulders, snuggling into his bed as the oppressive darkness closes in on him. The quiet of his room is different from that of the dream. Not so absolute. From here, he can hear Charlie thumping around the kitchen, hunting mice and moths. The grandfather clock in the store tolls thrice, telling him just how late it is, and in the far-off streets, a lone car rumbles past, going who knows where.</p><p>This is the kind of silence he’s used to—the kind he can live with. </p><p>His pounding heart calms as he takes deep, steadying breaths. The jittering unease beneath his skin starts to settle, and with it, the tension in his bones. </p><p>Who was the man? And why did he need help? </p><p>And what is <em> wrong </em> with him? The <em> man </em> is a figment of his imagination and certainly not someone Castiel needs to concern himself with. Sure, he looked a little familiar, but why? </p><p>Somehow, Castiel’s thoughts turn to the broken War Figure in his office, still sitting in its box on the shelf. He could open it up, oil the gears, clean up the tune, and maybe adjust some things… get it working again?</p><p>In the morning; he needs to sleep now.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Castiel clutches at the dove feather pendant hanging around his neck. It’s old—he’s not sure exactly <em> how </em>old, but he’s had it for years. The clear crystal brings him comfort, no matter that it came to him with Papa’s death, its matching pair now lost to him.</p><p>Perhaps Papa sold it. He never asked him not to, and he supposes he doesn’t need two, but it still makes him wonder…</p><p>Who has the other?</p><p>A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth with the thought of the unknown connection, spanning across time and space. He’s never had someone to connect to, and the thought of even a person he doesn’t know thinking about the matching set… </p><p>It’s a silly notion, but he clings to it like a grasping hand in the dark.</p><p>Castiel closes his eyes, though sleep doesn’t come. He reaches for it, but it sneaks into the corners, alluding him, and eventually, he lets it be.</p><p>With a huff, Castiel drops his legs over the side of the bed, letting his aching joints groan their final protests before pushing himself up. He never gets much sleep anymore, but usually a few more hours than this. He’s tired—God, he’s tired all the time—but exhaustion, he can handle.</p><p>“Come on, Charlie,” Castiel murmurs, padding through the kitchen in his bare feet. The worn hardwood is icy cold, but he throws on some socks, a pair of threadbare lounge pants, and a cable knit sweater Maman made him the last Christmas they shared. </p><p>Charlie ignores him, her green-eyed glare following him down the stairs. With a defeated sigh, Castiel leaves her be and makes his way down to the store, one hand on the railing and the other pushing back his hair. </p><p>For a moment, Castiel stops. He should grab some food, even if his shelves are almost bare. He <em> should</em>, but his stomach is silent for now, and he knows it won’t be later.</p><p>No, he’ll eat in a few hours, no sooner.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Castiel looks up from his work when the grandfather clock in the other room tolls six times. He sighs, setting aside his tweezers and pulling off his glasses where they’re perched on his nose. Time to get to work.</p><p>The broken pieces of Sergeant Dean Winchester lay in front of him, set out in a row on his tray. He managed to discover the issue—a snapped gear deep inside the mechanism. It won’t take too much to fix, but it’s delicate work, and for now, his fixing is done—he has toys to sell.</p><p>His joints complain as he stands from his stool. Sometimes, even at the tender age of twenty-seven, he feels like an old relic from the war. Everything hurts, inside and out, and there are so many scars…</p><p>His shower waits for him, the water barely lukewarm, but it gets the job done, and afterward, he dresses in his freshest button-down and trousers. </p><p>It’s chilly outside, and the heating has been out for weeks, so he throws on a cardigan and heads for the kitchen. </p><p>Charlie curls her tail, an ear twitching as she rolls across the floor. God, he knows the old girl  needs more food than she’s getting, but as it is, he can hardly feed himself. The stale half loaf of bread he has in his cupboard was more than he can afford, and even then, he’s sure it was discounted more than half its worth. Gabriel has always been good to him, though. The old baker would never see him starve, he’s sure.</p><p>Castiel brushes the crumbs from his hands, letting them fall into Charlie’s dish for later; she’ll appreciate the little snack. But for now, the shop awaits him, if not any customers.</p><p>That just seems to be the way of things these days.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Castiel can feel him there.</p><p>He knows it, of course; he <em> did </em> put Sergeant Dean Winchester on the display shelf before he opened. It was on a whim—a last-minute decision to draw back anyone who might be interested in The War Figure when his repairs are done. A marketing tactic, if you will, or even a conversation starter.</p><p>All day, Castiel’s attention is drawn back to the elegant figure, and he’s not sure why—this didn’t happen with any of the thirteen other figures, and he certainly didn’t have any reservations about selling them—but this one…</p><p>It draws him in.</p><p>Customers come and go, some making purchases while others simply browse, and for a while, he manages to ignore the figurine, but it feels like Sergeant Dean Winchester is speaking to him—words only Castiel can hear.</p><p>“Merci, au revoir!” <em> Thank you, goodbye. </em>Castiel waves the man and his daughter out with a grin—little Krissy Chambers and her father. What a sweet pair. </p><p>It’s about two and the shop is empty. There must be something else to dust, but even as Castiel swipes his rag over the shelves, shifting knickknacks and model trains, it comes away clean. </p><p>He sighs, leaning back against the exposed brick wall. No one will be in for a couple more hours, at least, he’s sure, but he shouldn’t eat yet, no matter how his stomach rumbles.</p><p>“What do you think of a little more tinkering, Charlie?” Castiel pushes off the wall, ignoring the way his head pounds as he scratches his kitty behind the ear. He should get a drink or something to stave off his hunger for a while longer. Yes, that’s what he’ll do.</p><p>With a glass of brandy waiting at his workbench, Castiel lifts Dean down from his shelf with gentle hands. The figure is just the same as the day before—frozen in time. </p><p>For the second time today, Castiel hesitates at the thought of selling him, but the rumbling in his stomach snaps him straight. He <em> needs </em>the money, or he starves. Or freezes to death out on the streets. He needs it, so there isn’t any other choice.</p><p>Not another soul stops in, so by the time Castiel looks up at the clock, unable to ignore the ache in his stomach any longer, he finds that it’s well past dinner—the streets outside his window long since gone dark. </p><p>Charlie lounges in her usual spot at the edge of his workbench—a wide wooden table Papa installed the day after he bought the place—watching him tinker like he knew she would. </p><p>He’s almost finished with The War Figure, and he debates just leaving it for the morning, but he’s <em> so close</em>…</p><p>Castiel fiddles while he debates, and by the time he decides it’s high time he gets some food before he passes out, it’s ten o’clock and he’s turning in the final fasteners. </p><p>“There you are,” he says to the figure, smiling down at the handsome man. It’s a shame he’ll be gone soon, but as his stomach clenches with hunger, he decides it’d be more of a shame to starve. “The War Figure; my favorite one.”</p><p>With one final wipe down and a tweak to his tattered flag, he’s almost ready, only one last thing to do.</p><p>The key turns with the precision of well-oiled gears, and without even a moment’s hesitation, The War Figure Lullaby fills the room; slow, melancholy, and haunting, and Sergeant Dean Winchester starts his dance.</p><p>It’s mesmerizing. He twirls and spins and dips like a master on the pedestal, the gear-work within so intricate, it would take years to build, and here Castiel is, watching the final product at work. It’s now that Castiel sees it—why people pay so much for a simple music box—and he hates to admit it, but this time, he half hopes not a soul will buy it.</p><p>The lullaby slows to a jilted, fractured stop along with the intricate dance, and it snaps Castiel from his reverie. What is he thinking? There’s nothing he needs more than to sell this thing as soon as possible, meaning <em> tomorrow</em>, so he pens a price onto a tag in a neat scrawl and ties it to the flag before setting it back on the shelf, front and center. </p><p>Hopefully, it’ll catch the right eye, and maybe he’ll be able to afford another loaf of bread—full price this time. Perhaps he can get the radiator fixed, too, and maybe a few new spare parts so he can pick up some toy repair jobs—</p><p>Castiel cuts himself off with a sigh. That’s a lot of hope to pile on a single sale, but it’s hard not to as he leans against the counter, staring up at the idle music box figurine. </p><p>He’s not sure why Sergeant Dean Winchester is his favorite of all The War Figures that have crossed his doorstep, but he can say one thing for certain—this one won’t soon be forgotten once he’s gone.</p><p>And maybe one day their paths will cross again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> This one, Castiel recognizes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Battle of Marseille, August of nineteen forty-four. The summer heat suffocates him, trapped under thousands of pounds of rubble.  </em>
</p><p>,,

  <em> He doesn’t even know the time of day—or night, for that matter—everything inside him short-circuiting as fear drives his heart faster and faster.  </em>
</p><p><em> He’s pinned, ragged breaths tearing at his lungs, and he screams. Oh, God, he’s going to die. The battle is over, but he’s going to </em> die<em>. </em></p><p><em>  His chest—shit, he can’t breathe. This whole thing is over, one way or another, but he’s trapped under a </em> building<em>. Not in the battle, fighting and dying like a hero, but stuck way down here, sure to suffocate, or be crushed by the rubble, or something else. Perhaps that’s better than the humiliation of being caught with his pants down when the bombs fell. Maybe it’ll look more heroic if he dies down here. </em></p><p><em> Except… he doesn’t </em> want <em> to die. </em></p><p>
  <em> It’s too dark to see down here, and he only has a few inches of movement, but the weight on his chest doesn’t shift at all when he shoves it. Both hands, bloody and aching, push at the rough stone.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  A cry escapes when the stone shifts, his lung screaming as something sharp jabs into them. No… okay, no moving. Don’t move it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Help,” Castiel whispers. It’s all he can manage as fear crawls up his throat, tears choking him out as hopelessness sinks in. “Help!” </em>
</p><p><em> Hours pass, or maybe minutes. Days—he doesn’t know. How </em> could <em> he know? Too long. He yells himself hoarse—until he’s too exhausted and in too much pain to breathe deep enough to speak. Panting breaths shutter from him, the pain, the only constant, tangible feeling as he starts to drift… </em></p><p>
  <em> He’s tired, so tired.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The sound of a music box—soft and sad and bitter melancholy—filters through Castiel’s tomb of rubble and rock. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He closes his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Castiel wakes with a gasp.</p><p>A sheen of sweat clings to him, dampening his skin and making him shiver. Deep, shuttering breaths fill his tiny room as he stares at the dark ceiling, Sergeant Dean Winchester on his mind.</p><p>Why? He doesn’t know, but he’s there, and he’s staying put. </p><p>For the first time, Castiel starts to wonder if he was a real person—a real soldier in the war—or if he’s a stand-in for all those lost to it, just like the thirteen others that have come through his shop. Does he have a family? Is he still alive out there somewhere, if he ever was?</p><p>Thinking about it now, he can’t stop. </p><p>The names and ranks of the others are lost to him; they weren’t on his shelves long enough to make an impression, and they definitely didn’t sneak their way into his dreams, but why Dean? Why <em> this </em> one, and why now?</p><p>There’s no hope of more sleep tonight—not with that haunting lullaby in the echo of every creaking sound.</p><p>Every muscle, joint, and phantom scar aches when he pushes himself out of bed. He really needs to get that heater fixed; maybe a little warmth in his bones will ease the pain.</p><p>He wanders his way down the stairs and into the store below, pulled by something he doesn’t understand. There’s an urgency in every beat of his heart, nudging him further with his bare feet freezing on the old wood, but the moment he reaches the bottom floor and catches a glimpse of Sergeant Dean Winchester, he settles.</p><p>With careful hands, Castiel pulls the figurine down from the high shelf, smiling at those green eyes and freckled cheeks. It’s striking, how handsome he is, and a smile twitches at the corners of his lips as he sets the music box down on the counter and turns the key.</p><p>A sense of comfort takes him over, something he never thought he’d find again. Dean dances and dances, those intricate moves only a hint of the complex gear work going on inside. The music, too, isn’t anything he’s ever heard before The War Figures, and sorrowful as it is, when it stops, Castiel misses it.</p><p>“Where did you come from, Sergeant Dean Winchester?”</p><p>Castiel waits and waits, studying the angles and curves of sharp cheekbones and full lips, but they don’t move, and he, of course, gets no answer.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Merci, à demain.” <em> Thanks, see you tomorrow</em>. Castiel smiles at Kaia, who’s looking at the receipt for her Popeye Dippy Dumper, which he’ll have to dig out of storage. Her Papa leads her from the store, waving over his shoulder as the bell rings above the door.</p><p>For the first time all day, his store is empty. It hasn’t been busy, per se, but he might call it a steady flow of customers. His cash register, at least, tells the tail of paid bills and food on the table, if not a radiator repair. It will do.</p><p>He closes the drawer with a sigh—there are shelves to dust and merchandise to straighten, and he needs to rewind the grandfather clock before he loses track of time. A yawn slips between his lips, and he rubs at his eyes. It’s nothing new, what with the periodic nightmares from his years in active duty, and the very real memories of the horrors of war…</p><p>Yes, he remembers it all, and his mind likes to remind him of that at every opportunity.</p><p>The bell above the door rings and Castiel looks up to find Hannah stepping inside. Her wide blue eyes find his in seconds, a toothy grin lighting up her face. </p><p>Castiel offers a friendly smile, folding his hands on the counter as she steps up in her bright, flowing dress and a wide-brimmed hat.</p><p>“Hello, Castiel,” she says, her accent thick and sharp as she switches from French to English. She cocks her head to one side, a strand of hair falling in her eyes. “I see you have a little friend, there.”</p><p>Castiel glances over his shoulder at Sergeant Dean Winchester, warmth sprouting in his chest when he finds The War Figure right where he left him. </p><p>“He’s for sale,” Castiel tells her, and so what if the words are a little harder to speak than they should be? So what if the thought of <em> this </em> one leaving his store burns like an iron to the gut?</p><p>The bell rings, a man steps in, and Castiel spares him a glance and a smile. He’s <em> tall</em>, with longish brown hair and hazel eyes. He’s lanky, but not thin, and there’s just something about his face…</p><p>“What’s his name?”</p><p>Castiel looks back to Hannah, who watches him with a smile like she already knows something—a normal thing for her—and Castiel holds up a hand for the man, who nods.</p><p>“This one,” Castiel says, flipping the price tag over for her to see. She’s never bought one, but there’s a first time for everything, and her sudden interest in anything to do with the war is… noteworthy. Maybe she’s starting to heal. “Is Sergeant Dean Winchester.”</p><p>“A handsome one,” Hannah says, but Castiel’s attention is on the other man, whose wide eyes look at his shelf like he’s seen a ghost. He <em> looks </em>like a ghost, face white, with something in his eyes that Castiel doesn’t understand.</p><p>“Hmm,” Castiel hums, non-committal, but he <em> is </em>handsome—very much so. The bell above the door rings again, the back of the man the only other indicator that he was here at all.</p><p>Hannah leaves soon after, and Castiel watches her go, his heart sinking as he lets out a sigh, the weight of two non-sales dragging him down more than they should. </p><p>Not that it takes much these days.</p><p>Is it him? Is <em> he </em> driving the customers away? He’s never been overly personable, even before the war, but now… Now, with the scars and the memories and the pain, pain, pain that never goes away, maybe this is just a byproduct of everything he’s done. Just <em> part </em> of everything he still has to lose.</p><p>The steady flow of customers was a fluke. A <em> fluke</em>, and nothing more. He’s going to lose his store, and he’ll be on the streets because no one wants a broken-down veteran with nothing to offer but an old tabby and a knack for knickknacks.</p><p>Castiel lets out a shuddering breath, letting his head hang between his arms where they’re braced on the counter. It’s time to close up shop—the sun is setting outside his window, casting long shadows across the floor, and the streets outside are emptying—and Castiel needs <em> something </em>to smooth his downward spiral.</p><p>He doesn’t even bother locking up before pulling out the half-empty bottle of brandy he keeps hidden behind the portrait of him in his dress uniform. The bottle is at his lips before the lock flips on the front door, and he’s swallowing it back as he turns the open sign to closed.</p><p>Too many memories. Too many scars.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Hello?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel glances up from his hands—his bloody, broken hands—to find none other than Sergeant Dean Winchester watching him from across the street next to the old mill.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What is he doing here? His War Figure, standing in front of him as a real man, almost like Pinocchio, only with a much cuter nose.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Blood drips from his fingers, staining the broken asphalt under his boots—his military boots. He stumbles back, panic surging inside him as he tries to wipe them clean. This can’t be real… it can’t be. It has to be a dream— </em>
</p><p><em> He’s dreaming. He’s </em> dreaming<em>, and Dean’s not real—he’s not standing there, twenty yards away, looking at him like he’s the first person he’s seen in years.  </em></p><p><em> But it </em> feels <em> real, and as Castiel’s heart rate slows, he lets himself look at the man across from him—his wild, wary eyes, and the ghostly pallor of his skin is almost sickly. There’s a tremble to his lips, and his hands shake—knees, too—like anything more than a stiff breeze could blow him over. </em></p><p>
  <em> “W-who are you?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel eyes him with cautious interest, taking in his tattered military uniform with its dirty American flag patch stitched to his collar. He’s sure it’s not regulation, but this is a dream after all.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Castiel,” he tells him. “Lieutenant Castiel Novak, and you are Sergeant Dean Winchester.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean watches him, green eyes taking him in as he steps closer, bridging the gap between them. “I am, yes.” He doesn’t ask how Castiel knows, and Castiel doesn’t offer. He’s not sure what’s going on, or if there’s anything at all, except that this feels like reality—this feels like something right out of his regular days. Everything is clear, from the bitter cold biting his nose, to the ache in his knees when he shifts his stance.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean, too, stands before him in vivid color—every detail as sharp as it would be if he were standing in front of him in the middle of the street on a bright summer’s day. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I don’t… Castiel?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel nods.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Castiel, then. I don’t remember what happened.” Dean looks at him like he has all the answers he’ll ever need. “I don’t know…” He blinks once, twice, before meeting his eyes with more than a little fear. “I’m… I’m trapped, Castiel. I—she trapped me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel scowls, confusion muddying his thoughts as ash starts to fall from the darkening clouds. “Sergeant Winchester, I don’t—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean advances, fast and urgent. “You have to save me,” he says, gripping Castiel’s sleeves, eye to eye as Castiel’s heart skips. “Save me, Castiel.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What? I don’t… Save you from what? You’re not—” </em>
</p><p><em> Dean shakes the words right out of him, frantic and terrified as the walls crumble around them, the mill overflowing in a thundering crash of inky black water. “Save me from </em> her<em>.” </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>The floor is colder than he remembers.</p><p>Colder than it should be when he opens his eyes, an empty bottle of brandy a few feet away. His head pounds, stomach turning with the burning pain of too much alcohol and not enough tolerance. </p><p>But that’s the last thing on his mind as he lies in the dark, his cheek pressed to the icy hardwood floors. The dream comes back to him in waves, pushing and pulsing as unease filters in through the hangover. </p><p>It was just a dream, of course, but a sense of urgency takes him over as he pushes up from the floor, swaying on his feet with one hand on his pounding head, and the other clutching his stomach. It’s like this every time, but he just keeps on keeping on; the only escape he has from the memories is into alcoholic oblivion, even if only for a few hours.</p><p>With his vertigo under control for now, Castiel stumbles to the stairs, his urgency spiking with every step. When he reaches the store, finding nothing but darkness in between the toys, he hurries over to Dean, a different kind of sick knot twisting inside him. </p><p>He can’t do it—he can’t sell Sergeant Dean Winchester—and he’s not sure why, but he <em> knows </em> he’d never forgive himself. </p><p>So he puts him higher, balancing on his tinkering stool as it wobbles, but he manages to get it up where not even Charlie can reach—his sneaky cat has knocked off more than her fair share of breakables. </p><p>Before climbing back down, he removes the price tag, leaving The War Figure unmarred. For a long time, he stares, leaning against the counter as the sun rises, slow and steady, its light taking hold in his tiny shop as the hours pass, and with it, his resolve that he’s making the right decision.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Two weeks after the dream and Castiel’s starting to feel a little more normal.</p><p>Well, if normal means a freezing store, an empty fridge, and enough demons to fuel hell, then it’s normal enough.</p><p>He’s just fixing up a new display when the door opens and the tall man with the shaggy hair from a couple weeks ago walks in, a look of fiery determination in his eyes. </p><p>“Good afternoon,” Castiel says, in English this time. His accent lilts in every word, feeling awkward in his mouth, but the American sticks out like a sore thumb in his old-world, French shop. “What can I do for you?”</p><p>The man wipes a hand over his mouth, shifting where he stands in front of the cash register, and he won’t stop looking up at the high shelf over Castiel’s head.</p><p>“I’d like to buy the, uh… the soldier. How much?”</p><p>Castiel’s heart swoops, tumbling over itself, and he glances over his shoulder at Dean, his price tag gone, but just as dust-free as always.</p><p>“My apologies,” he says, looking back at the man as his face falls. “The War Figure is no longer for sale.”</p><p>“Oh, he—it sold?” The man pulls out his wallet, searching through the sleeves as he speaks. “I’ll pay double—<em>triple</em>—what they paid.”</p><p>It sounds too good to be true, and <em> God </em> it’s tempting, but no. No, he can’t do that—not to Sergeant Dean Winchester. So, he shakes his head. “No, he’s not for sale, sir. Not at all.”</p><p>The man’s face falls, but he pulls out his wallet, producing a checkbook and a tiny pen. “Name your price. Anything, and I will pay it.”</p><p>It hurts—God, does it hurt—to know that this could save him. To <em> know </em>it, deep down in his bones, but still turn him away, because he knows, too, that selling this War Figure would kill him in the only way that matters anymore. </p><p>Sure, the war has killed every lovable part of him, turning him into a drunken, horror-struck mess, but Sergeant Dean Winchester might be the only thing saving him from damning himself to hell at the end of the barrel of his MAS Modèle 36.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What?” Tears well and shine in the man’s eyes as the silence stretches on, threatening to fall as desperation takes him over and he reaches for Castiel’s arm. “No, you don’t understand, I <em> need </em>that music box. He’s my—”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Castiel shouts, slamming his hand down on the counter as something almost feral springs up inside. He will <em> not </em> sell The War Figure. Not to anyone for anything <em> ever</em>. “He is not for sale<em>, sir</em>.”</p><p>The conviction on his voice almost scares him, and it sure makes the young man jump, but he backs away, lowering his reaching hand as heartbreak colors his features. He nods, a single tear falling free as he turns for the door, taking his leave with the sound of the antique bell ringing his exit.</p><p>For a moment, Castiel just stands there, confused and angry and more than a little scared by the man’s emotion, but more than that, by his own.</p><p>What is <em> wrong </em>with him? He has a business to keep afloat and no amount of groveling and pretty smiles is going to make up for the way he just behaved.</p><p>Castiel pushes it from his mind, turning to find Dean still up on his shelf. He smiles as he takes him down with gentle hands, feeling the smooth brass and cool marble of the pedestal against his calloused finger-tips.</p><p>He sets Dean on the counter, twisting the key a few times before letting Dean dance, The War Figure Lullaby filling the empty store with something other than Castiel’s guilt.</p><p>The soothing, albeit sorrowful, tune calms his racing heart, and as Dean dances on, a warm wash of comfort fills him—something he hasn’t felt since May tenth, nineteen forty, the day the Nazis invaded France.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Cas.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel looks up from the flowing mill, searching the waterfront in the early morning light. He smiles when he finds Dean walking toward him, dressed in his combat uniform as always. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Hello, Dean.” Butterflies tickle his insides, fluttering, and fluttering, and fluttering with no escape, but he doesn’t care, because even if they haven’t been meeting in dreamland for very long, he looks forward to them, if only to see Dean again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Long time, no see,” he says, lowering himself to sit on the bank, dead grass and fallen leaves crunching beneath him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel sits beside him with a heavy sigh. “It’s been a rough week.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Hm?” Dean hums, glancing over with pretty green eyes when Castiel doesn’t elaborate. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The heat is out again, and the demons refuse to be caged.” The demons of war, as he and Dean call them. He’s the only person Castiel has come across that gets it, even if he’s just a dream. </em>
</p><p><em> “Ah.” Dean nods, fiddling with a blade of brittle grass. “I can’t remember the nightmares, or even the dreamless nights. I remember being awake though—writing letters to Sammy was a bright spot in the days.</em>”</p><p>
  <em> “Sammy?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “My baby brother, Sam. He was just barely a teenager when I left, but we kept in touch.” Dean shrugs, glancing over at Castiel with a smile. “He’s probably forgotten all about me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Doubt that,” Castiel scoffs, bumping Dean’s shoulder with his own. “I bet he’s still looking for you, even now.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean doesn’t respond, but there’s something sad inside him—something broken and lost, like so many other soldiers before him, but Dean’s pain hits different and he’s not sure why. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I was supposed to be home,” Castiel says instead, a poorly veiled attempt at distraction. “When my parents died.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh, yeah?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel nods, leaning in to rest against Dean’s side. “I’d done my time and the toy store was going under—Maman wasn’t doing well, and I wanted to see her one last time before she…” He trails off, choking up with emotion.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean’s eyes are on him—he can feel them—but he takes a moment to connect the dots. “You didn’t make it back, did you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No.” Even now, more than two years later, the pain is still fresh as the day he received that letter. There’s an ache in his bones that hurts, and hurts, and hurts, only doubling down when Papa died, too, not long after Maman. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs, glancing over at Castiel with a twitch of an empathetic smile at the corner of his lips. </em>
</p><p><em> “Yeah,” What else does he say to that? What does </em> anyone <em> ever say to that? Yeah, it sucks, okay? He’s an orphan at twenty-seven, but is he? At what point do you stop being an orphan and start being just a guy whose parents died of a chill because the heat went out one too many times. </em></p><p><em> After a moment, Dean speaks, and no, it’s not what Castiel expects. Not at all, but still, it breaks Castiel’s heart in the most terrible way. “You know, I haven’t felt the touch of another person in… God, it’s been </em> years<em>.” There’s a tremble in his voice</em><em>—a rattle in his chest as he inhales a shaky breath—as he pushes both hands through his hair, head bowed and knees bent up to catch his elbows. </em></p><p>
  <em> Castiel’s heart beats with a steady one-two ache, thrumming, and thrumming with something like longing. He wants to reach out and hold Dean—wants to pull him close and never let go—and why not? It’s a dream, after all. It’s just a dream. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he does. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel stretches an arm across the space between them, reaching until he finds broad shoulders and warmth, radiating through combat fatigues. Until he finds Dean, shivering and shaking. Teeth chattering and eyes squeezed shut.  </em>
</p><p><em> But he leans into the touch, falling against Castiel’s side with a soft whimper and a clutching hand. It’s then that Castiel realizes how long it’s been for him, too. So, </em> so <em> long, since he’s felt the soothing warmth of another’s hands, and he sinks into it, scrambling at Dean’s clothes as he tucks his chin against his chest, nose in Dean’s hair, feeling all that overwhelming </em> need <em> for connection. All that tumbling emotion rioting inside him. </em></p><p><em> All he wants is to be closer. So much closer. </em> Impossibly <em> closer. </em></p><p>
  <em> And, as Castiel breathes in Dean’s cherry-sandalwood scent, fingers clutching, holding, grasping for someone to love, Castiel knows he wants it too. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>It’s not busy.</p><p>Not at all, actually. Not a single person has walked through his front door in hours, but for once, Castiel doesn’t care. He’s too busy thinking about the solid warmth of a soldier by his side. </p><p>Outside the front window, the blur of people move, but with unfocused eyes, Castiel doesn’t notice the figure stepping up to his door until the bell rings, startling him from his thoughts of dreams and Dean.</p><p>“Good morning,” Castiel says, straightening up with a smile. </p><p>“Oh, hello, Castiel,” Hannah says, her grin a little wider than it needs to be so early in the day. She has a slight flush to her cheeks, whether from the chill in the air, or something else, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t share the feeling that’s clear in her eyes. </p><p>“Are you making a purchase today?” He asks, knowing it’s the best way to go. Otherwise, he might find himself standing here, trying to sell her things she has no interest in buying, wasting time that could be spent with another customer.</p><p>“Not today, no,” she says, her fingers dancing on the counter as she looks through the polished glass at Castiel’s trinkets. “I thought you could use a chat as much as I can.”</p><p>“Lonely days?” She’s been alone for years. Ever since the first bombs dropped; her parents, too panicked to hide, choosing instead to make a run for it. Castiel still remembers that day—that moment when the world exploded around them—and all the moments after, holding his dear friend close as she sat in shock, her parents gone before her eyes. The terror of those days still holds firm in the hearts of so many, and the hatred of the soldiers, even more so.</p><p>“Same old times,” she sighs, her fidgeting hands buried in her skirt as she sways back and forth. Her foot starts to tap a staccato beat, not quite in time with the grandfather clock across the room. “Worse than before. It’s <em> all </em>the same now.”</p><p>Before the war. </p><p>Or during the war, he’s not really sure, but either way, he feels for her. Losing her parents at the tender age of nineteen, and right before her eyes, no less. It did things to her—made her bitter against the fight—and for that, they rarely discuss it. </p><p>The grandfather clock tolls once, but the sound hardly registers when he catches a glimpse of the shining gold around her neck. A necklace on the end of a chain. </p><p>It looks expensive—far too much for anyone in this town to afford—but she wears it like it’s been hers for years. Castiel scowls. Where is she getting that kind of money? Where is she getting her food? He knows her family was into the occult, but there’s no money to be made there. Nothing from locals, anyway—it’s the tourists that take to that, and they haven’t been around since before the war.</p><p>She must catch him looking because her fiddling fingers tuck it into her collar without comment.</p><p>“I’m sure something will change,” Castiel says, trying for reassuring, but he probably lands closer to placating than anything. A smile twitches at the corners of her lips though, growing as the seconds tick by.</p><p>“Would you join me for dinner, Castiel? Tonight, perhaps?” </p><p>“Quoi?” <em> What? </em></p><p>“Dinner. Here, maybe? Or we could go out?” Excitement swells in her eyes as she lifts onto her toes.</p><p>Castiel stops, blinking a few times to let that sink in. Dinner? They don’t do dinner. Even as friends, they’ve never done <em> dinner</em>. Is it because she knows something? Sure, he’s lost a few pounds and his stomach probably rumbles loud enough for the whole town to hear, but the thought of anyone <em> knowing </em>he’s hungry is just… well, it’s humiliating.</p><p>“I’m—I’m sorry, Hannah. I would, but work is…” They both look around the empty store, and the lie dies on Castiel’s lips, but he can’t take her to dinner. He can’t have her <em> here </em> for dinner, because he has no <em> food</em>. “I have some repairs to finish up,” he tells her instead. Not an unreasonable excuse, but he can tell she doesn’t believe him, so adds, “Maybe another time?”</p><p>Maybe if he works up the courage to sell The War Figure. Maybe when he really does have some repair jobs to keep him afloat. Maybe, or maybe not.</p><p>“Oh,” she says, brightens at the thought, and there’s a bounce to her step as she steps toward the door. “That sounds lovely.” There’s a rosy tinge to her cheeks—a pretty glow as she smiles—but Castiel looks away, too guilty to look her in the eyes.</p><p>She leaves, the bell tinkling above her head as she skips through, but Castiel turns away, looking up at the top shelf where the untagged soldier stands, stretched up in his pose with his rifle at his side. </p><p>Dean. Dean Winchester, the man in his dreams with the charming smile and the touch like a thousand flickering lights. He loves their conversations—spends all day waiting for sleep to come just so he can talk to him again. </p><p>No, it’s not real, but it feels like it. It feels like the most <em>real</em> thing in the world. In between days that feel like floating in a daze, and nights filled with alcohol-fuelled sleep, the <em>dreams</em> are what keep him going. Dean, and the ridiculous little crush he’s absolutely <em>refusing </em>to acknowledge, is all that gets him through.</p><p>It’s sad, really, that Sergeant Dean Winchester might just be his best friend, and he’s nothing more than a dancing figurine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> “Come closer.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “How close?” </em>
</p><p><em> “</em>Closer<em>,” Dean whispers, right in his ear—already so close that Castiel feels every angle… every curve pressed right up tight.  </em></p><p>
  <em> So, he wraps him up in his arms, one arm around Dean’s waist and the other clutching his hand as they dance.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In the war-torn streets of Bayeux, deep in the center of town, Dean twirls him around as the sky falls down around them.  </em>
</p><p><em> “Better?” Castiel whispers, lips brushing his ear as his heart swells two sizes in his chest, beating and beating and beating away for Sergeant Dean Winchester. Castiel’s sure he can feel it with how close they are, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t </em> care <em> who knows how he feels. It doesn’t matter—he wants the whole world to hear it. </em></p><p>
  <em> “Hmm,” Dean hums, and Castiel jabs his side with a fond smile. “Much,” he finally concedes, and Castiel sinks into the feeling of Dean’s smile against his cheek as they sway together in the middle of the lane, tripping over the cracked asphalt and laughing as they step right back into their dance. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Ash falls from the sky, swirling around them as the horizon explodes with mortar fire and rocks the earth beneath their feet. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Like war-torn lovers, they dance without a care in the disaster around them, and as the world explodes, tearing them apart, Dean’s laughter rings through the night, honey-sweet and warm like a shot of brandy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel sinks into the chaos. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The hollow pit in Castiel’s stomach turned from an aching nuisance to actual, physical pain sometime around the middle of last week. He’s going to have to sell the place—close up shop and scrounge together his meager belongings—or starve.</p><p>Honestly, he’s not sure which he prefers.</p><p>Then, one morning as he stumbles down the stairs—too tired and hungry to function—something changes. </p><p>He unlocks the front door and opens it to another box with a sloppily written note taped to the top. </p><p>Castiel’s heart swoops, taking a dive before soaring into his throat. His pulse thunders in his ears, drowning out the world as he takes the package inside, re-locking the door before hurrying to open it up.</p><p>His hands shake as he pulls out the flawless War Figure—Private Benny Laffitte, 15/22. Turning the key fills the room with The War Figure Lullaby, sad and slow and achingly beautiful, and Castiel could almost cry with the sound.</p><p>The figurine is up on the shelf by the time he opens the doors and sold before lunchtime. He doesn’t dream about this one, reveling only in the warm bread on his table and the heat radiating through his apartment.</p><p>Still, Sergeant Dean Winchester sits high on his shelf, unmarred by a price tag—too precious to be sold.</p><p>The sunset stains the hardwood floor a deep, golden glow, so close to closing time that Castiel can’t help but watch the clock, tapping his fingers on the counter, itching to snatch the fresh bottle of brandy off the shelf behind him.</p><p>He just barely holds back a snarl when the bell above the door rings and plasters on his brightest smile.</p><p>It falls when the tall, lanky American steps through the door, determination once again painted all over his face. God, what’s with this guy? This is the sixth time he’s come begging to buy the Sergeant in as many weeks—how many times does he need to be told no?</p><p>“I want to buy the music box figurine,” he says, and Castiel shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. It’s the same ol’ song and dance with this guy—of course it is.</p><p>“He’s not for sale—”</p><p>“Just…” he says, cutting Castiel off with a raised hand. “He’s my <em> brother</em>, okay?” Castiel stops, struck by the wide-eyed look of desperation—this time, with a reason. “He disappeared two years ago—MIA—and this is the first I’ve heard of him since.”</p><p>“That’s ridiculous,” Castiel says, shaking his head with a curled lip. So what if he’s being an ass? He’s itching for a drink and, with a glance at the clock, he’s two minutes past closing time. The figurine is just that, and he’s not about to sell it for some insane story.</p><p>“Come on, <em> please</em>,” the man says, hands pressed together in a prayer. “My name is Sam Winchester—Dean Winchester is my older brother, and he went <em> missing </em> sometime after the last letter he sent to me arrived. I’ve been looking for him ever since, but this is the closest I’ve come to finding him. He was here—in Bayeux<em>." </em></p><p>Doubt trickles in with the unease, and he can’t deny that it makes sense to an extent. It fits with his dreams, too, as crazy as it sounds—and it <em> does </em>sound crazy—but he can’t deny how real those dreams felt.</p><p>Still, Castiel narrows his eyes on ‘Sam Winchester’ and points to the door. “Get out.”</p><p>“What?” Sam says, looking far more shocked than he should, considering. “But—”</p><p>“Get <em> out</em>! Out of my store, <em> now</em>.” Castiel’s accent thickens to unintelligible levels, but Sam gets the point and hurries for the door, tears spilling over as he looks back at Castiel one more time, then up at Dean. “Don’t come back.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, something sharpening in his eyes when he looks at Dean again—at Castiel one last time. </p><p>Then he’s gone, disappearing into the fading light.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> “Is this close enough, my love?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It might be,” Dean says, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Or… maybe not? Maybe I want you closer—skin to skin.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Is that right?” Castiel arches an eyebrow, but slides a hand under Dean’s field jacket, his fingers dancing at the small of his back as they sway to that lonely tune. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “M-hmm.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel sighs, contentment sweeping through him along with the alcohol sinking into his veins. He’ll need to get himself another bottle in the morning, but he has food for a few more days, and he needs— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re sleeping better tonight,” Dean whispers, concern coloring his words. “How are the demons treating you?” </em>
</p><p><em> “Settled in for the night,” he sighs. This conversation is nothing new, and Dean’s about the only person he’s willing to have it with. He trusts him—he </em> loves <em> him—and he sinks into that love, soaking it in for as long as he can. </em></p><p>
  <em> “Good to hear.” Dean cards his fingers through his hair, stroking over his stubbled cheeks with adoration shining in his eyes. “I hate that you suffer.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I hate that you’re only a dream.” Overgrowth surrounds them—drooping trees that sway in the wind and shade the dirt path—just in his periphery. “Where are we?” Castiel asks instead of commenting on the sadness in Dean’s eyes. They’ve had enough of that for one night. </em>
</p><p><em> “Oh, this place?” Dean looks around, cataloging every swaying branch and jutting rock in the river only yards away. Sadness sinks into Dean’s bones, weighing him down in Castiel’s arms. “This is the place she trapped us—where she trapped </em> me<em>.”</em></p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel jerks awake, his heart racing, but it’s not from the dream. Something’s not right—he can feel it in his bones—and the more aware of the waking world he becomes, the clearer he hears it.</p><p>Glass shattering on the hardwood floor.</p><p>Castiel’s out of bed before he knows he’s moving, the butt of his rifle to his shoulder as he looks down the barrel of the gun. He spares a glance at his bedside table where Sergeant Dean Winchester sits, safe from the unsupervised storefront below. Castiel couldn’t sleep with him so far away, and now, he’s glad he took the time before tucking into bed to tiptoe down in socked feet to lift The War Figure from his shelf and carry him up to his room.</p><p>Now, on silent feet, he moves, taking the stairs one at a time as his pulse thunders in his ears—so loud, he’s sure the intruder will hear him coming from the top of the steps—secure only in the reminder that his War Figure is safe in his room.</p><p>He reaches the ground floor without a sound, rounding the corner like the trained and practiced soldier he is.</p><p>In the dark of his storefront, a man stands, muttering to himself in a desperate panic. Castiel stops, holding his gun tight to his shoulder as he looks at the man through the sights. Hands in hair, the man resembles Sam Winchester from earlier today. He’s searching the shelves, and when Castiel steps forward, flipping on the lights and pulling back the bolt before pushing it forward again, a shell in the chamber, he freezes.</p><p>“I know this looks bad,” he starts, and Castiel scoffs, nodding toward the broken glass of his front door. “Okay, really bad.”</p><p>“You have five seconds to get out. Five.”</p><p>“Wait, let me explain—”</p><p>“Four.” </p><p>Sam holds up his hands, backing away with wide eyes and a bloody fist; clutched in his fingers is a stack of papers, and they catch his attention. “I <em> need </em>to buy the music box figurine. You don’t understand—”</p><p>“Three.” Castiel’s heart skips in his chest—he’s killed more than his fair share of men, but not like this—not in cold blood. But he broke in, so it’s not <em> really </em>in cold blood, is it? He doesn’t know anymore, but Sam isn’t getting to Dean—not a chance. “Two.”</p><p>“It’s occult!” Sam blurts, squeezing his eyes shut while his hands shake where he holds them over his head. “My brother—Dean. Him and his squad were stationed in this town two years ago, just after it was liberated. They never checked in—no one has heard from them since—and I’ve been <em> looking </em>for him…”</p><p>Castiel lowers his gun, pointing it at the floor. He’s not sure why, but it feels true, and he’s not exactly oblivious to the occult. His parents were big into it in their youth, and no matter that he was never really all that interested, he was never a non-believer, per se. And with his dreams… </p><p>“How did you find me? Him?” Still, he’s not sure where Sam’s going, but it’s suspicious, and if he <em> is </em> telling the truth, it’s worth looking into. “And what does any of this have to do with the occult?”</p><p><em> This is the place she trapped us—where she trapped </em> me<em>. </em></p><p>The words roam around Castiel’s mind all the while, and isn’t that interesting? Isn’t that a little too close to exactly what Sam is telling him?</p><p>“I, uh… it wasn’t on purpose. You know, that I walked into your store. I was looking for something to distract me from all the <em> nothing </em>I was getting and walked in on you talking to another customer about him.” Tears well in Sam’s eyes, shining in the low light as he shakes his head, mouth open but no words coming out. “What are the odds of you having a figurine of my brother? He wasn’t famous, or even all that memorable—he was brave, sure, but there’s no reason for anyone to do this for him—so I did some research and found this.” He waves the stack of papers in his hand.</p><p>Confusion swells up to meet his disbelief. “What are you saying?” He knows, of course. It will sound insane, but Castiel has heard it all before—from his parents, mostly, but from others as well—and he’s sure it’s all in those pages Sam is waving around like his white flag of surrender.</p><p>“I’m <em> saying</em>,” he says, taking a deep, steadying breath as he levels his eyes on Castiel. “He’s just a soldier, but that’s not just a figurine. The War Figure <em> is </em> my brother, trapped in an endless dance by a witch. Only God knows why he’s dancing—that one I haven’t figured out. It’s all here, though,” he holds the pages out to Castiel, who doesn’t even attempt to take them.</p><p>“Tell me what they say,” he says instead, still wary of the other man despite his willingness to hear him out. For now, at least.</p><p>“Uh…” Sam turns the pages, scrambling to find his place. “Uh, okay, yes.” He clears his throat. “So there’s, uh… there’s this belief that a key exists—one for a music box called the Master Key—and if used on a person by the key-holder, they will be trapped in the form of a music box. Transformed into porcelain and, with enough practice, forced into whatever form the holder of the key wishes. Hence the dancing.” He turns the page over, the images showing a frame-by-frame transformation of a man going from a living, breathing human to a ten-inch tall figurine on a brass pedestal. “See?”</p><p>And maybe, just <em> maybe</em>, Castiel believes him.</p><p>The coincidence is too great. His dreams, and the unnerving sense of reality they hold, can’t be denied, no matter how he wishes they could. What has he done? Dean’s not the only one, of course, and all the others… </p><p>All <em> fourteen </em> of twenty-two <em> people </em> sold like product for his own gain. How could he do that? </p><p>Horror sinks deep in his bones, turning his stomach—it makes him sick to think it, but of course, he didn’t have a clue. But who—</p><p>“You didn’t know,” Sam whispers, looking at Castiel without an ounce of blame. And he’s right—Castiel <em> didn’t </em>know, but that doesn’t lessen his guilt any, no matter how unfounded it may be. “We can reverse it. By turning the key back far enough, we can release him from the spell. Of course, the amount of time that will take depends entirely on how many times the key has been turned. You see, the spell winds tighter every time the figure dances.”</p><p>Hope springs up like a baby bird—with fragile wings, not quite ready to fly—but still, Castiel turns for the stairs, the urge to run for his War Figure so strong, it’s undeniable.</p><p>He freezes in his tracks when Sam screams, fear dousing him like ice down his spine, and he whips around. </p><p>Right before his eyes, Sam transforms into a tiny figurine—frozen in a perfect arabesque. </p><p>Behind him stands Hannah—tears streaming down her face as her chest heaves, teeth clenched and hands fisted at her sides. </p><p>She has no hat now, her hair is a greasy mess, and she’s in a different dress—dark and ripped at the hem—looking at him with wild, glazed-over blue eyes. </p><p>It’s the necklace she wears, though, that catches his eye—a simple cord of dark leather, just long enough to tuck under a neckline. At the end hangs a small, golden music box key.</p><p>Castiel lifts his rifle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel blinks once, twice—what is she doing? Why is she <em> here</em>? His heart races as adrenaline sharpens his focus—a practice drilled into him as a soldier. There’s no time for panic, no time for wandering thoughts.</p><p>But they do wander. Right upstairs to The War Figure on his bedside table. To every dream he’s had over the months since The War Figure showed up at his door, and the ache that’s still there, deep down in the most hidden parts of his heart. </p><p>He wants that with Dean—with the <em> real </em> Dean—and not just as an escape from the prison of their lives.</p><p>“I love you, Castiel,” Hannah is saying, voice shrill as she waves her arms around. “I love you, and I have for years. My best friend in the <em> whole world </em> and I fell in love with you.” She shakes her head, tears glimmering in the low light, the short blade of a knife flashing. “The soldiers, Castiel! The soldiers!”</p><p>“Easy, Hannah,” he says, his rifle trained on her chest, center mass, as she takes a step closer, bare feet leaving dark stains on the scuffed floors. </p><p>“No!” She whips around, facing him head-on like he doesn’t have a loaded weapon—like she doesn’t even see it. “You didn’t sell number fourteen. It was a gift from me, to make you money, just like the others—to keep you safe—and you didn’t sell it.”</p><p>But that doesn't make sense. According to Dean, he’s been trapped for two <em> years</em>, and it’s only been in the last few months that he’s really struggled. Sure, the store’s been going downhill since before his parents died, but it was never obvious, then. He didn’t think so, anyway.</p><p>“No,” he says, shaking his head as he tries to put the pieces together. Tries to work out whatever twisted, tangled reasoning she has going on in that head of her’s. “You started this before my store started failing. You started this while I was still at war—this isn’t for me.”</p><p>“Wrong!” She laughs, loud and cackling. “It <em> is </em> for you. It’s <em> now </em>for you.” She does a slow circle, looking for… something, and almost steps on the foot-tall Sam figurine between them, missing him only by a hair. </p><p>Castiel’s heart jumps into his throat with the near-miss, again and again as she paces. Dean would never forgive him if something were to happen to his baby brother.</p><p>“I started to get revenge, sure. At first, I did it  to teach all those good ol’ American men that they’re not so invincible—not so untouchable—and that they, too, can be turned to nothing but little dancers. Little entertainers.” That same bitter, resentful twist to her lips—the one he’s been seeing for years—is back, but in full-force, and with so much poison, he’s not sure she can come back from that. “After your parents died? Everyone in the world was in love with American soldiers, Castiel. <em> Everyone</em>, and why not put that love to profit? Why not get your due after all you’ve lost? I did that for you. That was <em> all </em> for <em> you</em>.”</p><p>“It’s <em> wrong</em>, Hannah. They’re people with families and loved ones, and you can’t—”</p><p>“They don’t <em> matter</em>!”</p><p>Castiel takes another step back but stops when he catches a glimpse of the master key around her neck again. Sam’s words ring in his ears like the answer to all his problems, and his mind whirls with… something.</p><p>“They do, and I won’t let you do this anymore—not for me.” The ache of guilt roars up like a vicious beast as he steps closer, his plan cementing in his mind. <em> It has to be done</em>, he reminds himself, creeping nearer and nearer.</p><p>“Why?” she shrieks, unhinged in her distress. “They don’t eat or sleep or feel any pain. They’re not even human anymore, and they never die. They exist to entertain, Castiel! I gifted them to you for your use! That’s what soldiers do; they are a means to an end, and <em> this </em> end is for you. Why can’t you see that?”</p><p> Castiel moves closer, still. </p><p> She drops her arms to her sides, her tattered clothes rippling in the wind filtering in through the broken glass. “I won’t stop—I’ll make you see. We’ll be happy, and this one,” she says, pointing to Sam. “This one will make almost as much as the soldiers!”</p><p>“Okay,” Castiel whispers, his heart in his throat as he sets the gun down and raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, I believe you.”</p><p>“You do?” The tears glimmering in her eyes spill over, but she smiles, wide and toothy and entirely un-remorseful. She is without a soul—she must be.</p><p>“Come here,” he whispers, pulling her into a hug as a sob rises in her throat. “Come on.” In his arms, she’s cold as ice, her exposed skin frozen from the winter air, and her hair tickles his nose—greasy and caked with dirt. </p><p>His heart aches for her—for the ways she’s been hurt—but he has to. He <em> has </em>to do this to save others from the same fate as all the rest. </p><p>She sobs against his chest, face tucked in his shirt as she mutters about new figurines and a bigger store and—</p><p>Castiel holds her close as he jerks the chain from around her neck, the master key clutched between his fingers. More sadness than he’s felt in years sinks into his bones as he forces it into her back, the magic doing the rest of the work as the shop fills with a sharp, golden light. He turns the key once, twice, and the roaring in his ears intensifies. </p><p>The change happens fast, and yet, so slow, he sees it bit by bit. She has a few seconds of movement as she shrinks to ten inches tall and solidifies, but not much more. A scream cuts off in her throat, one final tear sliding over her porcelain cheek as she reaches for the ceiling, knife still clutched between her frozen fingers.</p><p>Castiel drops to his knees, face buried in his hands as he gasps for air. “It had to be done,” he whispers to the hardwood floors. “It had to be done.” But it still feels wrong. It still feels like he’s betrayed her.</p><p>He crawls to where she is and holds her in both hands. <em> It had to be done</em>. Her frozen fingers reach for the sky, stretched up on her tips-toes in cool porcelain. One leg extends behind her, her tattered dress still with unmoving time, her face a mask of sorrow.</p><p>Castiel turns the key and she dances.</p><p>As the sorrowful War Figure Lullaby fills his store, Castiel turns the key back on Sam but doesn’t wait for him to come alive before racing up the steps, two at a time, to Dean.</p><p>“Come on,” he whispers, snatching Dean up in his hands before dropping onto his bed. The springs squeak and the frame creaks but he holds his breath and turns the key back one full rotation—</p><p>Nothing happens.</p><p>“Come <em> on</em>.” More desperate this time, he turns it back again. Why isn’t it working? No… no, it <em> needs </em>to work!</p><p>Footsteps thunder up the steps behind him, but Sam stops in the doorway, harsh breaths filling the room and drowning out the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.</p><p>“Why isn’t it <em> working</em>?” He looks back at Sam, desperation bleeding from him. He knows he looks a little wild, what with his bedhead and the general exhaustion that weighs him down.</p><p>“He’s been trapped for <em> two years</em>, Castiel. How many times has he danced?” Too many to count, he’s sure. How many times did Castiel turn this key? Wound Dean’s prison tighter? How many times has he hurt the soldier of his dreams? And all the others? How much worse off are they?</p><p>So he unwinds the key. Over and over for who knows how long. Until his fingers cramp and ache, and blisters start to form on his calloused skin. </p><p>Sam attempts to take over as the night ticks by, but Castiel almost breaks his nose when he tries to steal Dean away. After that, he leaves him alone.</p><p>Castiel’s not sure when he slid to the floor, but he sits there now, the cold hardwood sending sharp pains up his spine, with Dean on his bent knees as he winds and winds. And he starts to wonder… </p><p>Will Dean remember him?</p><p>They were just dreams, after all, and Dean isn’t even alive, according to Hannah—frozen in time. So, will he know him? Will he love him like he does during sleep? Or will Castiel free the man just to become a stranger in his eyes? </p><p>It’s the most terrifying part of it all because he <em> has </em>fallen for Dean. Fast and hard and so completely that he’ll spend the rest of his days with this ache in his chest, even if that’s all it’ll ever be.</p><p>“Come on, Castiel,” Sam says, stepping through his bedroom door somewhere around six in the morning. “You need to patch the window and put the girl away. You need a break, and I…” Sam pauses, but Castiel doesn’t look up from Dean’s smattering of freckles. “I need to help him too. I need to do something, and you need some sleep.”</p><p>Castiel deflates on a soft exhale, closing his eyes as he gives in. He aches right down to his bones as he pushes himself up from the floor. He doesn’t even bother meeting Sam’s eyes as he leaves the room, setting Dean down on the bedside table with gentle hands on his way to his sofa. Maybe a little shut-eye will do him some good. Maybe Dean will be awake again by the time he is.</p><p>Maybe…</p><p>Castiel sighs, sinking into the worn cushions as he tucks his hands beneath his head. The weight of his worries pulls him down, and it’s not long before he’s drifting off, all his thoughts turning to Dean.</p><p>Sam’s right, of course; he’s exhausted and overburdened, and he <em> needs </em>sleep, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It’s not until hours later that he hears a change. The sun starts to rise through the front window reflecting on the shattered glass, and he <em> feels </em>it.</p><p>He’s got the door boarded up, and he’s called Zeke to fix it up later in the week, but the moment he hears the noise from upstairs, he stops in his tracks. He watches the shadowed doorway at the top of the iron staircase, time dragging on as his heart skips a few beats, waiting, waiting, waiting with bated breath.</p><p>On and on, terrified and hopeful all at once. This is it—either he loses Dean, or he doesn’t. </p><p>No matter who rounds that corner—Sergeant Winchester or Dean—Castiel will love him to the end of time, even if he’s offered no love in return.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “God, Cas, ever heard of personal space?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, and I don’t plan on familiarizing myself with the term anytime soon,” Castiel retorts, holding Dean closer as a smile graces his lips, slow and sweet, much like the lullaby filtering through the dance hall.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There’s no rhythm to their movements; just a gentle sway in each other’s arms. It’s nice—the best thing Dean has in his life—even all alone with a view of the star-speckled sky through the collapsed roof. Castiel’s slow breaths tickle his neck, but Dean can’t bring himself to care.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They’ve spent years like this—like lovers do. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “When you wake,” Castiel starts, that teasing smile on his lips, an adoring glimmer in his eyes, “Don’t forget to keep both eyes open.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What for?” What is he on about? Dean cocks his head to the side, lips twitching at the corners as the wind outside rattles the skeletal branches—snow is sure to fall tonight; it’s only a matter of time, now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Just…” Castiel says, trailing off as he strokes the backs of his fingers along Dean’s cheek.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He leans into the touch, torn between closing his eyes, soaking it in, and keeping them wide to catch every loving look.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Keep them open. See everything, and remember that I love you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean cracks a smile, his mind floating to a long-ago memory—one he’s not even sure belongs to him. Two lovers in a storefront, dove feathers around their necks. </em>
</p><p><em> With warmth in his chest and a sigh whispering from his lips, Dean meets Castiel’s too-blue eyes and, in his most garbled French, he tells him, “Et moi, toi.” </em>And I, you.</p><p>
  
</p>
<p>Dean gasps, sucking in the sweet, sweet air as he opens his eyes for the first time in who knows how long. The wisp of memory drifting off like all the rest before them, but this time…</p><p>This time, Dean’s awake.</p><p> And he <em> aches—</em>—God, he aches—but he’s got breath in his lungs and he can feel the chill in the air and he’s <em> alive</em>.</p><p>For a moment, he doesn’t dare to move. Just lies where he fell, hoping and praying and wishing this isn’t a dream. Isn’t one of <em> those </em>dreams—the ones that feel so real it hurts—with Castiel in the ruined streets.</p><p>“Dean!” </p><p>Dean jerks, more than a little jumpy as he skitters across the floor, bumping into a side table and knocking a lamp to the floor with a startling crash.</p><p>But he knows the voice. <em> Knows </em> it like he knows the scent of fresh apple pie on a summer morning or the feeling of his M1 against his shoulder.</p><p>“Sammy,” Dean whispers, meeting his brother's eyes across the unfamiliar room. God, how long has it been? He’s so much older… His hair is longer and he actually has a <em> beard</em>, patchy as it may be. He was only thirteen when Dean enlisted—too young to be there himself, and too dumb to care. </p><p>He’s off the floor and across the room in seconds—stiff and sore but so beyond caring as he pulls his baby brother into a bone-crushing hug. Tears well in his eyes and everything feels so <em> real </em> that he can’t handle it. It’s too much and he’s too much and the whole <em> world </em>is too much—</p><p>“Where is he?” Dean whispers, chin hooked over his brother’s shoulder as he searches the space behind him. There’s a long-haired orange tabby eyeing him from the kitchen, and a cool draft making its way up the stairs, but no… no Castiel.</p><p>“I—who?” Sam pulls back, scowling at Dean like he doesn’t know what to do with him.</p><p>“Castiel?” Don’t tell him that wasn’t real. God, don’t tell him that. “Sam, where is he?” Panic seeps into his bones, sending a shiver down his spine as he looks up at his brother with pleading eyes. “Please?”</p><p>“He’s downstairs, but Dean—how do you know—”</p><p>Dean brushes past him before he can finish the question. It doesn’t matter how he knows who Castiel is—or that he’s hopelessly in love with a man he’s only ever known in his dreams—just that he sees him again. </p><p>With his heart leaping and head spinning, Dean rounds the corner, his combat boots thumping on the old flooring as he reaches the stairs. He stops, hand on the railing, and looks out into a store he knows. A store he’s seen once before, and—</p><p>There’s Castiel, standing by the door with wide-eyed baby blues—so open and vulnerable it breaks Dean’s heart. This is the man he knows from his dreams; the one he grew to know and love more than almost anyone in his life. </p><p>And he might not know him at all. Castiel might not have a damn <em> clue </em>who he is, but does that matter? Does it really? Castiel’s presence in his mind, no matter how distorted and inconsistent, was the only thing that kept him from losing it at times. That counts for more than Castiel’s memory, and if he doesn’t know Dean beyond the figurine on his display shelf, then Dean can find a way to be okay with that. </p><p>The stairs creak beneath his boots as he makes his way to the ground floor, hand on the railing as his back protests and his knees threaten to give out. All the while, Castiel’s eyes never stray.</p><p>He reaches the bottom with a slow breath, stepping up to Castiel with a rattling in his chest he’s not sure what to do with. This wouldn’t be the first time love has come to him unreciprocated, and he’s sure it won’t be the last, what with his… inclinations.</p><p>As it stands, the reason he’s even in this mess is for love—specifically, love for a woman whose father didn’t want him, and a rank that puts a target on his back. Lisa Braeden, who pales in comparison to the love he has for the man in front of him. </p><p>The fact that Lisa’s father was his commanding officer didn’t seem to be an issue until Dean found himself with a sergeant’s pin slapped onto his uniform and a squad of men to lead into war.</p><p>Now, though, Dean waits with bated breath. He can’t look away, and as the sun hits his face—so warm and bright and full of everything he’s been missing—he feels the weight of this moment like it’s the precipice on which the rest of his life rests.</p><p>Then—</p><p>“Tell me you know who I am,” Castiel breathes, hope and fear so clear on his beautiful face that Dean almost sinks through the floor with relief. “Tell me, Dean.”</p><p>“Closer,” Dean whispers, a smile twitching on stiff lips that haven’t smiled in years. </p><p>Castiel almost sobs as he steps into Dean’s space, wrapping his arms around him with the kind of exhausted smile that feels like the final minutes of the day—that time just before rest. </p><p>Dean sinks into the embrace, feeling like he’s found something real—something good and stable and true—for the first time in his life. </p><p>“<em>Closer</em>,” Castiel whispers back, hands clawing at Dean’s field jacket with his face buried in his neck. </p><p>In this broken world where he should be dead but somehow <em> isn’t</em>, he has this, here, with Castiel, and that’s so much more than enough.</p><p>“I love you,” Dean murmurs, over and over and over like it’s the only thing he knows.</p><p>And when he’s all out of words, Castiel whispers, “And I, you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You never did tell me where you got this, you know?” Castiel asks, fingering Dean’s feather-in-crystal pendant with the tiny silver pendant that reads, ’Et moi, toi.’<em> And I, you. </em> Around his own neck hangs its match, only the words on the silver tag read ‘Je t’aime.’ <em> I love you</em>.</p><p>“I, uh,” Dean laughs—a sheepish thing as he pulls Castiel closer, swaying in the night. “I bought it from your old man just before—”</p><p>Dean stops, but the ache in Castiel’s chest is so familiar, he doesn’t even have to ask. Instead, he pulls his own pendant from under his shirt, leaning away just far enough for Dean to see.</p><p>“These belonged to my parents,” Castiel says, letting his pendant drop as he wraps his arm back around Dean’s neck. “After my mom died, I took hers, and Papa didn’t want anything to do with his, so I suppose he sold it.” He shrugs, not really sure how it all played out, but they’re here now, and does anything else matter?</p><p>“An heirloom, huh?” Dean says, pulling Castiel in by the hips as the final storefront blinks dark. “Neat.”</p><p>“My parents were into the occult stuff, you know?” Castiel arches an eyebrow, the enormity of their connection still baffling to him, even seven months after their first real meeting. He’s seen the pendant before, of course, but having it here, right in front of him every day, after believing it lost for so many years, is just… “They used to say they could share dreams.”</p><p>“S’that right?” Dean’s eyebrow arches to match his. “And did your father also have a fondness for French accents?”</p><p>“Papa had a French accent, mon cher, but yes, he did love the sound of my mother’s voice.” He speaks the words against Dean’s lips, their kiss as fleeting as a breeze that ruffles their hair and sneaks through the thick fabric of Castiel’s new jacket, making him shiver.</p><p>Snow floats from the dusting on the roof of his store, the newly painted sign shimmering with the delicate crystals, almost like a winter wonderland if it weren’t for the cracked and scarred earth beneath their feet. The war is almost two years behind them, and still, this town shows its history.</p><p>“As I love yours.” And what a sweet-talker Dean is; his dreams didn’t miss a single detail of who he is. Even with his trauma, and all his many demons, Dean is still the most wonderful thing the world could offer a war-weary soldier.</p><p>“Anything from Sam?” </p><p>“A letter, yes. Just the other morning, he found word of Benny. He’s in the hands of a young widower back in America—says he reminds her of her lost fiancé.” Dean lets out a heavy sigh, the weight of Sam’s burden obviously sitting on his shoulders too. </p><p>When Sam let Bayeux six months ago, it was with the self-given task of recovering the lost soldiers, and with what little information Castiel was able to provide, he’s been able to rescue twelve of the twenty-two—seven of which were in Hannah’s cabin, waiting in boxes with little notes, ready to be dropped at Castiel’s unsuspecting door.</p><p>“Excellent,” Castiel breathes, the words falling from his lips on a sigh. He tucks his chin against Dean’s neck, his lips brushing the warm spot beneath his ear as he inhales his cherry-sandalwood scent and relishes in the heat of another body flush against his.</p><p>“I was thinking,” Dean starts, and Castiel groans—what now? It’s always something with this man, though he doesn’t really mind. “Oh, stop. I saw you eyeing the magnetophone in that new shop and I thought I might buy it for you since we’re doing so well.”</p><p>Castiel’s heart stutters, butterflies fluttering even now, seven months later. But he knows what the thing costs; it’s why he didn’t buy it for himself. “But, Dean, the cost—”</p><p>“—Is why we’re discussing it.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Castiel hums, the fire dying from his argument in an instant. “Alright.”</p><p>“The store is doing well—very well,” Dean says, twirling him out before drawing him back into his arms as the lullaby plays on. “And my pension has finally kicked in.”</p><p>“This is true.” With Dean’s income, he’s been able to put some money into spare parts for toy repairs, and it’s all been uphill from there.</p><p>“And Benny has been recovered, which is something to celebrate.” His lips tick up in a smile as adoration bleeds into every part of him.</p><p>“That is something.” Castiel nods, tipping his head from side to side like he’s considering it—like he hasn’t already decided.</p><p>Dean pauses, quiet for a long time as they dance, burnt-out street lights doing nothing to sour this enchanting night. There’s no time here—no sense of early or late—and Castiel prefers it this way. Just them and the night.</p><p>“We wouldn’t have to use the music box to dance to.”</p><p>Yes, Dean has a point. Every time Dean has an itch to dance in the streets, Castiel turns to Hannah, usually locked in a glass case on the highest shelf, though now out with them—dancing her sorrowful ballet.</p><p>“I suppose we should, then,” Castiel concedes, though it’s not really a concession. He’s beyond on board, having wanted the magnetophone since he was a little boy. Dean knows this, of course, and the lines crinkling by his eyes tells Castiel he knows exactly what he’s doing for him.</p><p>“It’ll be wonderful, won’t it? Just you, me, and the stars.” He pulls Castiel closer, as tight as they can get without tripping over the other’s feet. “Maybe we can get a spotlight next. Or tap shoes.”</p><p>“Oh, stop,” Castiel laughs, slapping Dean’s side as he presses a lingering kiss to the spot just behind his ear, but he’s thinking about it. Thinking about it, and Dean, and every wonderful thing to come. All in good time.</p><p>“I can’t wait,” Dean whispers, a hint of long-lost excitement in his voice—something Castiel’s been hoping for since the day Dean was freed. </p><p>If he’s being honest, neither can he.</p><p>Now, though, they dance in the dark. In the middle of the healing streets with nothing but the stars to light the sky, and only a lonely music box to break the silence, they dance, and they love, and they look into the future of their quiet little life with all they have.</p><p>And this is how they heal.</p><p>The End.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Follow me on Twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/allmystars_AO3">allmystars_AO3</a><br/>~<br/>Follow me on Tumblr at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i">allmystars-i</a><br/>~<br/>Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i<br/>~<br/>Come buy me a coffee on <a href="https://ko-fi.com/D1D346EM4">ko-fi</a> if you'd like!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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